Writing a Book Is Hard: One Author’s Very Honest Experience

Who knew writing a book was so hard? Not me, that's for sure. I started writing the paperback - the glorious, life-affirming, coffee-fuelled dream of becoming a published author - back in October last year. And then scrapped it. And then started again in January this year.

And then promptly lost the will to live approximately 27 times and counting.

Honestly, writing the thing was one part storytelling, three parts existential crisis. I owe my nervous system an apology and at least 11 days of uninterrupted sleep. If someone could sedate me in a quiet hotel room with blackout curtains and no Wi-Fi signal, that’d be great.

The kids? Equally proud and over it. My son jumps and spins every time I mention “the book” like I’ve just solved world hunger. My daughter, now officially thirteen and suspicious of everything, has asked me to stop using her as material, while simultaneously approving the cover and telling me, "You can't say that Mum!"

Apparently, everything is content. That is, unless you're a teenager and related to me.

And let’s not even get started on the hellscape that is publishing admin.

ISBNs? Barcodes? Meta data?!

I was just here to tell a story - not fill out 17 different forms asking me what Thema category best describes a humorous memoir with emotional meltdowns, ADHD, and toaster references.

Oh, and let's not forget about the support groups online. You know the ones - those chirpy, know-it-all communities supposedly there to “help new authors.” Except what they actually do is tear you apart like a hyena pack with opinions on margins and line spacing.

I asked one simple question about barcode assigning and got a barrage of unsolicited advice from a man named Garry, who, let’s be clear, was not actually a Garry. He was more of a Gakere or a Githinji.

Fun fact: The name Githinji means a butcher. Which he most certainly was. Of my soul!

But here’s the thing: I did it.

Somehow, through the chaos, caffeine crashes, maths worksheet printing, social media meltdowns, and daily family interruptions that begin with "Muuuuuuuuum" and end with "can we eat this, or is it part of your book stuff?", I got it done.

And I'm actually really, really proud of myself for that. The book is real. It’s honest. It’s ridiculous. And it’s mine.

It's funny, and relatable. Crude and yet only mildly offensive (go me!) It's everything I wanted, and so much more. It's therapeutic, spit-your-cuppa-out kind wrong, and yet, brimming with a happiness I didn't even know I held.

So yes, if you’re out there clinging to a half-finished manuscript, a ridiculous dream, or a coffee cup that’s more ambition than liquid, please keep going.

Even when it’s hard.

Even when your very own Githinji shows up.

Even when your kids roll their eyes and your to-do list looks like it’s been written by a drunk squirrel.

You’ve got this. And if not, fake it with confidence and at least a semi clean t-shirt!

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 "The scariest moment is always just before you start."

Stephen King